Hospital Corners
by Amy Silver
Pam looked at me and said, “You know how to do hospital corners. Right?”
I agreed.
“You would be surprised how many of ‘em don’t.”
I made the bed while she cleaned the bathroom, and I was glad that was the end of the discussion. I hadn’t claimed housekeeping experience when I applied for this job and I hadn’t learned hospital corners under the proudest circumstances.
Two years ago I was living in White’s Motel in Mojave, California. When my rent money ran out, I became a housekeeper the way the other housekeepers had become housekeepers and the way the maintenance guy had become a maintenance guy, the way the desk clerks became desk clerks. We called it “The Co-Op Motel” and regarded paying guests — who often left cans of beer for tips — as members of another species. None of us ever had more than pocket change, but we had the best pillows, the most lavish amounts of towels, and we never had to pay for coffee or toilet paper.
We sort of assumed that Bidel, the manager, felt like we were part of his family. His kids seemed to think we were anyway. So it was a surprise when Bidel quit his job and left without us. The new manager told us we had to move on, but at least he didn’t make us pay the back rent.
I still have all those pillows and towels, and I wonder if I can sneak them into this motel’s inventory, now that I am earning enough money to buy my own.
The End.
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